Shawn’s hand stops moving, and then we’re both just standing there tortured. We were supposed to have today off, and I’d planned on sneaking away with him to a Laundromat or something, but instead, I’m stuck with his hand in my pocket and not a damn thing I can do about it.
When he gives me a look, I give him one back, and I realize what he’s seeing—me, with my big black eyes, staring up at him with a pouty bottom lip bitten between my teeth. He frees his hand from my pocket like he’s considering using it to haul me somewhere private, but then he rakes it over his scalp and strangles his hair between his fingers.
The corner of my mouth kicks up into a satisfied little smirk at how frazzled he is, and he immediately pulls his phone from his pocket, typing something out before mine buzzes in my jeans.
If you don’t want to be dragged back to the bus, you have to stop.
You started it.
Let’s finish it.
I peek up at the promising expression on his face, my blood flashing white-hot before I turn my attention back to my phone. The desire to go with him is so, so strong. For the past few weeks, all I’ve wanted is half a damn hour of privacy so I could see if fitting together with him would feel as good as I remember.
But what happens after? What happens when that half hour is up? What happens when we get home?
“We’re going to Van’s hotel party after this, right?” Adam asks, giving me a much-needed excuse to tuck away my phone before I type something stupid—like, “Can we talk about our feelings first?”
“Yeah,” Shawn answers Adam. “I think we have to.”
Chapter Fifteen
ONCE, WHEN MY parents took our seven-person family to Florida for summer vacation when I was ten, we all packed ourselves into one giant hotel suite. It had two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a modest living space. My parents got the first bedroom; I shared the second with Kale, Bryce, and Ryan; and Mason took the couch. We were all in awe of how big it was.
Van’s penthouse hotel suite, which is filled with the most decadent furnishings I’ve ever seen, could easily fit ten of that Florida suite within its two-story walls.
Crystal chandeliers sparkle from the ceiling, glinting off of black marble columns that stretch all the way to a black marble floor. A bar lines most of the left wall, and beyond that, tropical fish swim in a built-in aquarium that stretches halfway around the room. The water casts waves of light onto the diamond-dust bar top and across the floor, which steps down into a sunken seating area in the middle of the suite. Sparkling side tables, priceless antiques, plush leather couches—Van’s suite was built for a king, and the far wall proves it. Made entirely of glass, it boasts the glimmering Nashville skyline, a kingdom to be admired.
His Royal Highness’s private quarters are to the left of the suite, and in another room off to my right, I catch a glimpse of a lap pool as someone splashes into it. A hairspray-scented group of girls races by me, already giggling and tearing off their clothes, and in front of me, Van spins around. He faces me and the rest of my bandmates, spreading his arms wide with a proud smile on his face. “Mi casa.”
Someone turns on the music, and the entire suite comes to life. Van’s entourage doesn’t stop racing past me—girls, girls, guys with girls, more girls. I get jostled by one and step forward, angling my body to get a better look inside the pool room.
“If I put my arm around you again,” Van questions from beside me, “will I be safe from getting another wet willy?”
I straighten and shake my head. “Nope.”
He chuckles and throws his arm around me anyway, leading me to the bar and telling the guy who’s busy stacking liquor bottles on top of it to pour me something. Everyone else is helping themselves, pouring top-shelf tequilas like they’re nothing but unfiltered water. All of the guys but Shawn have dispersed throughout the room, and when he presses up against my other side, the air charges with a static that fizzles thickly in my throat.
“So on a scale of one to ten,” Van says, “what are my chances with you tonight?”
I turn toward him so that his arm drops from my shoulder, smirking at the overconfident grin he gives me. My back is pressed against Shawn’s front when I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “You realize Shawn has a better chance with me tonight than you do, right?”
Van glances at Shawn and laughs, but he has no idea how serious I’m being. He toasts my jab and tells me to have fun, and when he disappears, Shawn’s fingertips slip into the waistband of the tight jeans I’m wearing.
“On a scale of one to ten,” he echoes in my ear, “what are my chances with you tonight?”
With goose bumps skipping down the back of my neck, I turn around to meet his eyes, but instead, I catch myself staring at those impossibly soft lips. I know what they feel like against my neck, my shoulders, my chest. And I can think of a dozen other places I’d like to feel them.
When he leans in, I don’t stop him. I know that anyone could see us—Adam, Joel, Mike, any of the roadies we brought with us tonight—but I don’t have it in me to care. I’m lost in him, lost in some place I never fully escaped from and now never want to. His lips are a caress against mine, a promise that deepens until I’m drowning in it, and it isn’t until someone pops a bottle of champagne that the spell is broken. Shawn and I both jerk out of the trance we’re in, my heart hammering against my ribs as my eyes swing up to meet his shocked expression.